


Shwakefire

by Faith the Ships Archivist (Nessafae)



Series: Shwakefire [1]
Category: Wakefire
Genre: Airships, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Celtic music, Gen, Inspired by Music, Midnight Circus, Musicians, Pirates, Wakefire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-04-24 04:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessafae/pseuds/Faith%20the%20Ships%20Archivist
Summary: Cynthenny, a very special girl, finds her self whisked away to a magical world aboard the Good Ship Wakefire, a ship powered by music and magic, and crewed by a colorful band of misfit musicians.





	1. Cynthenny and the Good Ship Wakefire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner or hilariously retrofitted. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Probably. Maybe.

Cynthenny was an extremely special and unique girl. She felt she had never really fit in, and the blossoming of adolescence had only made her more alone. Sprouting long awkward legs had only increased the awkwardness of her too-red wavy curls, and eerie violet of her color changing violet eyes. She had learned to escape the attentions of peers with books, music, and wistful longing for acceptance. Everything changed one autumn evening as she explored the attic of her family’s middle class home.

Cynthenny was idly sorting through a Rubbermaid bin of early 90’s velour bodysuits when an unexpected glint caught her eye. She grasped an unfamiliar metal shape, hefting a strange collection of gears and lenses that she would later recognize as a sextant. She held it up to sunbeams streaming through the attic window as she sat back, and felt her buttocks settle on an cold metal cylinder. Reaching behind herself, she extracted a dusty 17th century spyglass. As she reached up with this unfamiliar object, the sunbeams dazzled through both sets of lenses, creating a mystic pattern that shredded time and space like a cheap nightgown in a tumble dryer.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

She came to in a haze, dazzled by the light streaming through a tangle of ropes and linens above her that resolved into … a ships rigging? 

“Oh sweetie, take it slow!” squealed an amorphous shadow to the left.

“Where am I? Who are you?” Cynthenny queried as the shadow resolved into a perky pink haired woman. 

The stranger beamed, and squealed “I’m Nessa, the boatswain! - you know, boat sway this way, boat sway that way, I’m in charge of that!” Cynthenny noticed other people approaching on the deck of the ship as she wobbled to her feet. 

“Ron! Haley! Look who I found!” squealed Nessa. “This is, this is, uh …” she paused, uncertain. 

“Cynthenny,” offered Cynthenny helpfully. 

“I just found her on the deck!” reported a beaming Nessa, “I think she wants to be our friend!”

“Cynthenny? I’m Ron.” Ron sauntered forward with easy grace. He was a panther of a man with coal brown beard and eyebrows, and a banked fire in his eyes. “Welcome to the privateer Wakefire,” he purred. He was the ship’s chief engineer, and definitely looked like a man that spent a lot of time in a steamy room belowdecks.

Haley approached more cautiously, as she did not trust as easily as her shipmates, especially when random people fell through time and space rifts in a manner that could potentially endanger a good drum set-up. Haley was a tall, fierce woman tastefully appointed with tattoos which colorfully depicted her conquests. She wondered what Cynthenny could be up to . . . but upon observing her closely realized Cynthenny was probably the reincarnation of their long lost captain, able to steer the magic of the ship to cross the ocean sees, and therefore would be the key to allowing them to invade the midnight circus - because Haley was pretty good with stuff like that.

“Hey!” squealed Nessa, “You guys, doesn’t Cynthenny look like a mystic reincarnation of our beloved captain who was able to focus the magic of music to allow the Wakefire to more efficiently plow the waves?” 

Haley felt pierced by doubt. “Nessa, you always say that when we meet someone you want to make out with. We should have the ship’s Chaplain examine her.”

Because she seemed to have no choice in the matter, (and certainly not because she was secretly pleased with the attention and possibilities of adventure with this strange but highly attractive band of misfits), Cynthenny followed Ron’s feline curves around to the front of the ship where up on the pointy end there was a broad shouldered man adjusting his lenses in the sunlight, with a bass slung strong across his broad shoulders. As he turned, the sunlight gleaming off his scalp, she realized he was much older than the others -  _ really _ old, like probably  _ 30 _ \- but still hot, not like that friend of your dad’s.

Ron explained, “This is Russ, he is the ship’s chaplain, also the navigator, captain’s clerk, copyright procurer, and some other stuff, he has books and looks stuff up.”

“And I am very busy trying to plot a course to a safe port,” sighed Russ, “so what do you need?” 

“We want to know if this young woman is who she claims to be,” asserted Haley. “We can’t just hand over our loyalties to every scamp that utilizes powerful magic to materialize on the Wakefire.” 

“But I didn’t claim anything,” protested Cynthenny.  

“If you’re a stowaway we get to make you walk the plank!” trilled Nessa, all too excitedly for Cynthenny’s tastes. By this time Russ had already set up a scrying mirror, a crystal ball, a mystic tome, and handed Cynthenny a cup of hot tea. 

“Nessa, don’t make me mute you. Stowaway, you drink the tea, gaze into the ball and breathe on this mirror,” masterfully instructed Russ. She closed her eyes, sending up a silent prayer that whatever mystic forces had guided her here would help her now. As she lifted the tea to her lips, Russ squashed a spider with the tome. “Never mind,” he sighed, “I can tell through my mystic art of squashed spidermancy as ship’s exterminator, that you are the incarnate rebirth of our captain. Cynthenny, was it? Go over to the wheel and tell Jared. Not that he’ll like it . . .” 

Ron, Haley and Nessa grabbed Cynthenny’s elbows to briskly escort her to the other end of the ship, on the tall part, but not as tall as the masts, which supported a webbing of ropes and billowing sails. They passed beneath the crow’s nest and the well-thumbed copy of Sibly’s Guide to Birds chained to the post. Birdsong wafted through the air. 

Ron shaded his eyes as he scanned the rigging. “That’s the call of the eastern curlew. It either means the lookout is reporting open seas, or there is a curlew up there,” he interpreted. 

Nessa leaned in close to Cynthenny and whisper-squealed, “Mitchell is the ship’s social media manager and lookout. He mostly stays up in the crows nest and tweets.”

At the sound of his name Mitchell agilely swung down from the crows nest - which is quite a feat when wearing a kilt. He was a lithe lad who looked like David Tennant on goth night. “I heard you found a reincarnation of the captain!” His grin was as mischievous as a bored octopus in a high-security bank. “Take this with you, you’ll need it,” he said, handing them a small fluffy quadruped that stared at them with Matt Farrell eyes. “She’s the ships archivist.” The creature had a quill pen and a scroll of parchment clutched firmly and it’s jaws.

“What  _ is  _ that?” said Cynthenny, clearly uncomprehending as she reluctantly cradled the tiny winged beast. It looked up at her. She held it a little farther away from her vital organs.

“That’s Faith, the ship’s cat. She is also in charge of recording our history.”

“Why would you even do that?” said Cynthenny incredulously, “It’s clear that she cannot handle the technological responsibilities of the task - I think she’s trying to eat the parchment right now.” 

“Yes,” squealed Nessa, “but she has a lot of ideas, boundless enthusiasm, and bites if you try to take away control of the project.”

“That’s great . . . ” winced Cynthenny as her companions opened the door to the steering room. 

Cynthenny looked around at the large wheel, the navigational charts, and the way the sunlight streaming through the windows created dark shadows sparkling with dust. In fact, they gleamed, gleaming glints of glittering light that guided her gaze into a pair of icy blue eyes in an inky black leather mask. “Oh my…” stammered Cynthenny.

A saturnine slice of moonlight-colored flesh peeled out of the shadows and resolved into a lean figure of a man with silken hair and a beard the color of the last rays of sunset.

“Who is this … stowaway!?” demanded Jared, who had been trying to resolve Russ’s handwriting into functional navigational instructions. 

“She’s the reincarnation of our captain, here to- hey! Urgh -” squealed Nessa as Jared brushed past her to approach Cynthenny, piercing her with his gaze from a distance almost, but not quite, close enough for the intimacy of kiss.

“A likely story,” scoffed Jared, “Did she materialize on the deck in a swirl of cosmic energy?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” confirmed Haley, “Also she has no real flaws except for clumsiness at plot-specific yet endearing points, and Nessa wants sloppy make-outs with her, so we are pretty much stuck. Move your junk, Jared, she needs the captain’s quarters.”

“WHAT? NO!” hissed Jared in an engorged tone, as he whirled to pin his manly shoulders against a blonde oak door. “This is … my pleasure room ...” 

Ron glanced wryly at Cynthenny. “Hey, Cap,” he murmured, “Sounds like Jared already decorated for you!” 

“.......!” stammered Cynthenny. She felt flustered, with hot gazes caressing her.

 “Would you...” pregnantly paused Jared, as he stroked the door open, “care to enter?”

“.......”

Cynthenny gasped as she looked into the cabin, its contents luridly displayed before her virginal eyes. “That’s … a whole lot of guitars.” She faltered. There had to be several dozen guitars of all shapes and models hanging on the cabin walls - and a banjo, which Jared hastily stood in front of, blushing, in the hopes she wouldn’t notice.

The assembled crew started easing their way among the guitars, stepping over cables and black boxes to help Cynthenny start looking for the furniture, when the sunlight stopped streaming through the windows, due to a lurid purple, red and gold airship hovering between the sun and the Wakefire. Out on the deck Mitchell had time to shout “TWEET TWEET MOTHERFUCKERS!” before being interrupted rudely by circus thugs swinging down to board the Wakefire.


	2. The Midnight Circus Attacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cynthenny meets the Wakefire's deadly foes, the Midnight Circus - in combat!

Haley, the ship’s gunner, dashed back out onto the deck, calling, “Sarah! The cannons!” Cynthenny saw, out on the deck, a lovely woman in a sensible blue dress lined with pockets full of gunpowder sachets answer.

“Ready for battle, sir!” Sarah, who must be the gunner’s mate, was standing at the head of a row of gleaming brass cannons, already rolled out and loaded, with a neatly-stacked pyramid of four-pounders near each one, as if she had sensed the impending attack with some kind of ESP. Haley gave her a swift finger-guns and “Eeeey!” of approval before they set to work aiming.

Everyone else followed her out of the cabin to confront the boarders. Russ was holding off a knife bearing ruffian with expert swordsmanship and threats of legal action. A portly rascal tried prying open a hatch on the deck, only to be immediately peppered with knives originating from a tall woman belowdecks. She had close-cropped dark hair, flashing eyes, and skin that made the author uncomfortably aware that everyone else described in this story so far is really white. Her skin was the color of skin that authors often describe with gross food metaphors. “I just cleaned that kitchen, you walking corpse!” shouted Cynthia the ships cook. As she waded into the chaos, bristling with knives aplenty in unlikely places, she shouted down the hatch, “Stay in the kitchen, Daniel, you’re naught but an innocent cabin-boy who should be spared the ignominy of battle!”

Shots rang out across the deck from the dual flintlocks of a dashing raven-haired maid who looked to be guarding a stack of merchandise emblazoned with the Wakefire logo. “You’ll have to pay for that, you rapscallion!” she insisted, before cutting the purse of the ruffle-shirted ruffian she had just shot and tossing it into a chest marked ‘tips.’ Cynthenny deduced she must be the ship’s quartermaster. “We take cash or credit!” the woman added. “All right there, Holly?”

“You take care of the coffers - I’ve got this, Mary!” At Mary’s back was a woman bearing her an uncanny resemblance, but for her sun-kissed auburn locks. “Begone or taste my lash!” Holly, the ship’s bosun, intoned. She wielded a leather cat-o-nine-tails with a dancer’s grace and all the mercy of a tidal wave. Cynthenny felt a strange sensation - like butterflies made of lava holding a tango party low in her belly - at the sight of how deftly the woman swung the dread multi-tailed whip. Strange, she thought, since she was quite sure this implement was intended to cause serious pain if not injury to any party it flagellated, as demonstrated by the screaming and crying shirtless strongmen it was currently being employed against.

Cynthenny, our protagonist, was having a lot of trouble dealing with all of this. She stumbled around the deck with Faith the cat in her arms, trying to avoid shrouded equipment and haphazard violence, as Ron dodged a bayonet and rammed a piccolo to a man’s temple. Haley had been cornered against her drums by a grog drinker with grey balding hair.

“Hello sweet thing,” he leered as he lowered his sweating grog mug towards the taught, firm surface of Haley’s snare, “You’d be so pretty if you just … smiled for me ...”

Sarah, in the middle of sneaking up behind the man with an improvised garrote made of a broken guitar string (D, she was pretty sure) , paled. “Oh no, you didn’t just ... ” She dodged, agiley taking cover behind a set of bongos. 

Haley’s screech of rage was drowned out by the roar of the cannon she kicked so savagely that it loosed from its mooring to detonate the grogster into a fine pink expanding mist.

“I’LL SMILE WHEN YOU’RE IN HELL!” she roared, whirling to stab a middle aged white ruffian in the lung with a graphite drumstick, leaving him barely enough breath to gasp, “The drummer should smile.. more…” as he expired.

         Cynthenny backed away, cowed by the carnage, and was seized in a profoundly un-shippable pair of thug arms. 

“ARRRR!” improvised the circus fiend, causing Faith to SCREM SO LOUD - and Cynthenny lost her grip on the archivist. 

“REEEEEEEEEE!” reee’d the ship’s cat, clinging pointily to the fiend’s face.

“REEEEEE!!” agreed the fiend as he dropped Cynthenny and proceeded to provide an inordinate amount of raw data on how a cutlass is probably the wrong tool for prying a housecat off your face.

Cynthenny felt menaced on all sides, except the side where Haley was hitting people and screaming. Another circus mook dashed towards her in a menacing blur of purple and crimson motley, and was suddenly hip-checked over the rail, as Jared rescued her in his arms, placing his body between her and danger. 

“FOOL! They’re after you- GLARCK!” gasped Jared as the hovering Midnight Circus shot him with a cannonball. 

He fell defenseless at Cynthenny’s feet. She was super sad at how pale and vulnerable he suddenly looked, realizing that this was not a regular injury, but that Jared had been shot ... by a Poison Cannonball! 

The rest of the Wakefire’s crew were locked in a desperate struggle for the ship, except for Haley, who appeared to be having a pretty good time, but was still very busy. Cynthenny was the only person who could save him. She held his fading form in her arms and lowered her trembling lips to his wound … and heroically sucked the poison out.

At this point, the clamoring violence was drowned out by louder and violent-ier violence as Russ and the ship’s cook succeeded in their previously unnoticed ploy to climb the boarding ropes back to the airship, set fire to the powder stores, puncture the gas bag, and steal parachutes to leap back to the deck of the Wakefire. Nobody had noticed them doing it, and that’s how you know it was a ploy, or possibly even a shenanigan.

“Wow!” squealed Nessa, pausing in her sensual drowning of the youngest and most attractive circus hench, “That was the kind of violence that could provide cover for the retreat of the midnight circus crew while obscuring important plot developments!” 

“My name is Ian!” Gasped the hench during the sudden break in drowning for exposition. “Remember me!” 

Nessa sighed happily. “Oh well, back to sensual drowning, I guess!”

The lackeys of the Midnight Circus were repelled from the Wakefire, rejoining their smoldering airship as it b’limped away in defeat, but at what cost? Haley had painful overuse injuries of her elbows. Russ was walking funny after his parachute landing. Cynthia the ships cook was severely put out because the unsupervised cabin boy made 62 gallons of mafe and then didn’t clean up the kitchen. Nessa ran out of people to drown and was making out with Mitchell. Holly, upon inspecting the ship for damage, discovered a scratch on the side view mirror that she swore hadn’t been there before, while Mary checked tee-shirts and medallions against her inventory checklist - she was pretty sure one of the circus henchmen had stolen a logo’ed bottle opener. Faith the cat was crying over her broken quill pen, and Ron was successfully extracting his piccolo from a cadaver’s sinus cavity, but not really sure if he ever wanted to play it again. 

“Argh, ow, I think I sprained my paternoster,” Russ gasped in the oaken tones of a mature man who has Seen Things. “That was a daring raid by our foes, the Midnight Circus.”

“Yes,” agreed Ron, “it was like they were after something. Were they trying to steal our musical instruments? Everyone check your gear!” 

The crew scrambled to check tuning and count drums and guitars. Holly cracked her whip, her favorite way of motivating everyone to clean up the ship. Russ made Haley stop thumping dead white guys. Nessa forgot to eat food. Cynthia and Mitchell tidied up the deck and threw corpses overboard, because they were unhygienic. Holly buffed out the scratch and re-painted. After an hour of hard work, they discovered Jared’s quiescent recumbent form.

Mitchell pointed out his cannonball wound. “I think he was shot! And poisoned! But he will live!” 

“Hooray!” agreed everyone, except Cynthenny. 

“Oh no! Why didn’t Cynthenny agree?” quivered Cynthia.

“Bad news,” informed Haley. “Even though Jared, our mightiest warrior, has been felled by a poisoned cannonball, but will miraculously live, I have searched the ship but can find no trace of our sadly departed and then mystically reincarnated captain Cynthenny.”

“GASP!” squealed Nessa.

“It is as I feared,” solemnly intoned Russ, with the sexual gravitas of a man with a 401k, “The Midnight Circus has abducted Cynthenny.”


	3. The Oracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wakefire consults the Great Oracle

Chapter three started with a lot of exposition about finding Cynthenny. Without the captain, the crew could summon the wind, but was confined to the ocean. The airship that had taken Cynthenny could move freely about the skies, without trails or footprints. Mitchell had headaches from scanning the horizons. 

“Oh Ron, it’s no good,” damply squealed Nessa, “I’ve been flirting with mermaids all afternoon, and none of them have seen the airship!”

“Nessa, we are all doing our best. Except the cabin boy, who should be putting oxyclean on these bloodstains. But take heart; Russ says that we will consult the Wise Oracle. We can get underway as soon as we patch up the ship and I clean these nose hairs off my piccolo. Sigh. If only I had more instruments to play, like maybe an accordion, or a banjo ...”

“Oh,” Nessa said excitedly, “I saw an accordion  _ and _ a banjo in the ship’s dumpster!”

“What?!” cried Ron in anguish, “is that somebody’s idea of a joke??” He went to start tuning the poor mistreated motherless things.

Jared took his place at the ship’s wheel on the highest deck as the crew repaired rigging and ate some mafe. “With no captain, we cannot channel magic directly to the ship. We will have to rely on summoning winds with our enchanting music. Our originals would be too mighty for the ship in this condition. We could try a cover, but there’s always a chance that will summon a Kraken. No, back to our old standbys, Traditionals - Ron, play the Chicken Dance!”

Like hell was Ron going to put that nasty piccolo near his face. He strapped on his newly-cleaned and tuned trusty honk engine and joined Russ, Haley, Nessa, and Jared as they jammed on a merry tune, charming a subtle breeze to caress the ship’s sails and push the ship. Ron pumped the bellows, his fingers coaxing a polka beat on the accordion’s keys, while Russ expertly matched his chord progression on his bass, now slung in front because it’s difficult to play an instrument that’s behind you. Jared salaciously strummed his second favorite guitar, his clear vocal stylings rising above the sound of the waves with Nessa’s rich alto weaving harmonies with the wind. Haley began the song with a mellow jazz beat, but soon lifted the energy and the tempo by adding her double bass pedal and some brilliant cymbal rolls, snarling in satisfaction as the breeze picked up, carrying their trusty vessel along. Mitchell returned to to the crows nest to keep watch on the horizon, scanning for the oracle’s island. He shivered, partially for fear of the captains captors, and partially because a kilt in a crows nest is really breezy.

The Wakefire ploughed the waves all afternoon, surging on the eldritch energy summoned by the musical pirates.

By sunset, the Island appeared on the horizon. The Wakefire drew in close and moored on the beach, where puffins made their tiny nests among the beach stones. The landing party struggled to shore, staring up at the Mystic purple mountain soaring up from the beach side. 

Russ intoned solemnly, “The oracle was up there last I saw him. It will be a steep and treacherous climb, but he’s our only chance of finding the Midnight Circus and their Cursed airship.” 

It was a rough and craggy climb up the rocky cliffs also covered with puffins - still, the band was delighted to stretch their legs while not carrying any equipment. Nessa played songs about ponies on a ukulele to keep their morale up, even though no-one asked her to. The Wakefire’s crew scrambled past goats and rocks and more puffins, clambered over vertical misty meadows bisected by enchanting waterfalls, and finally reached the summit, where they saw a mysterious entity wrapped in a dark blue cloak, crowned with fog. 

Russ warned the crew, “Do not startle him! He retired from our rough adventuring ways to perfect his arts, but his temper is mercurial, and we do not want to incur his wrath.” 

The oracle pulled back his hood and turned, his visage as stoic and stony as the rocks on which he stood, being totally Paul the Frigon Sage. “You have already disturbed my nap with dagblasted dreams foretelling dire events interspersed with entertaining comic relief and unfortunate backstory, Russ of the Good Ship Wakefire. Say your piece and get on with it. I’m tired, and up too late already.”

“We need you to locate the stowaway who escaped on the Midnight Circus airship!” challenged Jared. 

Haley gave him the hairy eyeball and corrected, “Our reborn captain was kidnapped by the Circus and we need to find them to rescue her.” 

Jared harrumphed and kicked the sod, responding, “Whatever. I don’t even like her. Not like, LIKE her. You like her. Shut up.”

Paul took a nap during this very important character development, because he had already developed his character and was just waiting for his cue. His (INSERT COLOR HERE) eyes snapped open suddenly. “Russ! Alert your rag tags! I have had a prophetic dream of a damaged airship, folding like a poisonous blossom into a huge tent! Goons and rascals in purple tights were setting up seats, popping corn, and tying an unconscious women with too-red curly hair to a rack!” Russ and Ron nodded sagely; this was the quality content they came here for. 

“Amazing!” squealed Nessa, “Where did you see this tent?”

Paul shrugged, “My dream didn’t show a location.” 

Jared snarled, “Then what good are you?!”

Paul the Oracle gazed back with a super judgey gaze and responded, “You are impatient, I see.”

“Well YOU are-” started Jared, when Paul interrupted him, gazing Even Harder off in the distance.

“I See Them.”

“Neato!” squealed Ron, who wasn’t going to let Nessa have a monopoly on squealing, “Are you using psychic powers to locate them?”

Paul sighed, (his second favorite thing, after napping). “No, Ron. I see them, I live on an actual mountaintop, I can see the ocean and coasts in every direction, that’s them over there, you can tell from the way they’re winching down the elephants from the ship’s hold,” pontificated the perturbed Paul as he pointed peevishly at the proud purple pageantry popping over the panorama in the far distance. 

“Whelp.” acknowledged Jared, as he and his cohort looked across rivers and bays, over the hills and roads that would challenge the seafarers exactly as much as the plot demands on their journey to confront the Circus. 

They returned to ship with Nessa setting a brisk pace by vigorously ukeing songs about lava at any slowpokes.

They started tuning up and setting the sails for the bay nearest to the Circus. Russ frowned as he and Jared plotted the course. 

“We will have to leave the ship behind and form a raiding party to get the captain back,” he said. 

Haley glumly predicted, “They will be expecting us.”

“Indeed, so we will disguise ourselves as carnies to evade detection. Time to … Start Wearing Purple!” cued Ron, prompting the band to call the winds with an Spritely melody that was definitely not Punk Rock.

Below decks, the ships cook was cleaning the kitchen to prepare the night’s dinner, Anything But Mafe, while the ship’s cat scribbled notes and tried to steal ingredients like Nyoom om nom. Quartermaster Mary assembled the purple disguises and struggled not to put Wakefire logos on them. Both tasks would have been easier with the help of the cabin boy, but too bad for Mary and Cynthia.


	4. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wakefire attempts to rescue their long-lost captain from the Midnight Circus.

Cynthenny blinked to wakefulness in a tent, with starlight streaming through the windows. The ceiling was swathed in silken purple scarves and sheer red and gold drapes that glowed in the lamplight.

“Alone at last, my lovely … and welcome to the Midnight Circus,” soothed a warm masculine voice. “I am the ringmaster, you can call me … Bubba.” Cynthenny craned her neck to see a strapping man with golden curls and a radiant, angelic complexion.wearing a purple leather vest and sparkly purple tights with a Kilt. Also, no shirt. It was a daring look, but he rocked it. “You must be so thirsty after your recent abduction. I have brought you a mandolin full of lemonade,” he said, as he offered her a horizontal mandolin. 

Cynthenny tried to brush it away, and felt the unyielding bonds strapping her down onto an orthopedically supportive rack. “What’s going on? Where am I?” she squeaked, noticing the tent was full of glass flasks, humming machines, Bunsen burners, and trays of sharp instruments.

“This is the laboratory of Veronica the Fortune Teller,” explained Bubba as he lounged rakishly on a velvet ottoman. 

Cynthenny queried, “Why does she need an alchemical lab to tell fortunes?”

Bubba shrugged playfully and answered, “She doesn't. It’s more for the necromancy. Fortune telling is just her dolla-dolla bill job. Vee intends to use her dark arts to extract your soul so that she can control the magic of the Wakefire and save us money on airship fuel.” Cynthenny recoiled, as far as someone strapped provocatively to a rack can recoil.

“Nooo! I don’t want my soul extracted!”

“Great!” beamed Bubba, “because I sneaked in here while she was changing violin strings to try to seduce you into joining us of your own free will! How about it?” He wiggled his eyebrows, which Cynthenny had to admit was pretty convincing.

Cynthenny was taken aback. “You kidnapped me and strapped me to a rack, dammit!”

“Valid,” conceded Bubba, “but what if I do THIS with my eyebrows?” Cynthenny was tempted by temptation, the thing with the eyebrows was really good. 

“I, um, well…” she faltered, wondering if purple tights were a look she could pull off. Or perhaps, she thought, as she gazed into his erotic eyebrows, Bubba could pull them off for her. She leaned towards him, as much as she could while embraced in the unyielding rack, when the mood was decidedly broken by a sudden woman slamming the tent open.

“Bubba stop trying to sex up my research subject!” commanded Veronica, a punctual red-haired sorceress in a flowing purple evening gown, thigh-high villainess combat boots and matching lab coat. “The Wakefire will be in hot pursuit after our daring raid and I can’t torture her properly if you get her all cookied up! Begone! And take your mandolin with you!” She elbowed him fiercely out the tent flap and slammed it behind him.

“Now my lovely, we are alone at last,” Veronica seduced as she advanced on the aroused confused and bound Cynthenny. Vee had the walk of an anaconda talking off wet pantyhose, but Cynthenny decided to be more worried about the array of sharp implements poised in Veronica’s grip.

“Can’t we talk about about this?” panicked Cynthenny.

“Not for very long,” shrugged Veronica, “I intend to torture your soul out of your living flesh and into a steampunk revenant I alone control. We are on a very tight schedule, so I better start with your face.”

As she menaced menacingly over our protagonist, who was strapped to a rack and must be forgiven for not taking a more active role in the narrative, an alarm and outcry arose outside the tent. “Sabotage! Subterfuge! Stampede! Supination!” There was a clatter of hoofs and poorly organized circus goons. Veronica rolled her eyes and stomped out of the tent to put an end to this nonsense.

“Alone at last!” gasped a strapping tousle-haired lad crawling out from under the rack. “Hi! I’m Daniel, cabin boy of the Wakefire! I sneaked into the circus to rescue you and also to avoid cleaning the kitchen! I mean, I meant to clean up, but you needed rescuing…” He was a clean cut boy on the edge of manhood, with sooty dark lashes and eyes beaming with purity and innocence. Cynthenny was so relieved.

“Daniel, Veronica is going to torture me! Help!” pleaded Cynthenny. 

“Okay,” replied Daniel, grabbing a lit candle, 30 feet of rope, a spatula, a sharp knife, and 2 riding crops.  “Where should we start?” 

Cynthenny stared at him. “Wat.”

Daniel stared back. “Uh, what?”

It was clear she had not successfully communicated her expectations. “Daniel, get me off!”

Daniel gestured vaguely with the riding crop and responded, “I’m willing to try, but I’m going to need you be a lot more specific.”

“Daniel get me off this rack, we have to escape!” shouted Cynthenny. 

“Ok!” chirped Daniel, climbing halfway across her writhing body to untie her bonds. “Gee, I hope this doesn’t awaken something deep within me,” he hoped out loud.

He untied her and slashed open the tent wall even though there was a perfectly serviceable exit in the wall not 12 feet away. Daniel grabbed Cynthenny’s hand with a firm yet virginal grip and they plunged out into the darkness. 

The circus was in an uproar, with roaring lions and emotional elephants knocking things over and the circus’s squad of acrobats and smugglers trying to corral the panicked beasts. Cynthenny and Daniel marveled at this lucky coincidence that all this fuss was giving them the distraction they needed to evade recaptured and flee to the warm, moist, moonlit forest, completely unchaperoned. Unbeknownst to them, this fuss was not a coincidence. The Wakefire had launched their daring rescue plan! 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Earlier that night, having disguised themselves with purple tights and fake circus mustaches, they had scampered quickly from the ship, through a lush countryscape that was actually a shorter distance then it looked last chapter.

“Okay you scallywags, remember this is a stealth mission. We are here to find the captain and get out, we aren’t equipped to fight a whole circus. Keep your instruments acoustic and your tread cat-like.” instructed Russ, who’s still-evident sexual gravitas, on further inspection, was fueled by a Roth IRA. The circus tents crouched around them like really big umbrellas full of evil clowns as the crew crept through the darkened midway in the wee hours before dawn.

They sneaked around corners and peaked into tents, hastily hiding or impersonating acrobats to evade detection.

“This is taking too long!” hissed Jared, “We should just burn the tent down!”

“That’s a terrible idea, Jared!” returned Russ, “This is supposed to be a rescue mission! We can’t burn the place down with the captain still inside! Let’s split up; I’m sure it’s a great idea.” 

With that, the crew split up, hiding from or mingling with the circus workers. Nessa, disguised as the tiniest strongman, was charming information from a carny setting up his booth. Ron was a bearded lady, concealing his beloved accordion in the guise of an imposing bosom. Jared had concealed his black mask under a sparklier purple mask. After an hour of careful sneaking the crew regrouped. 

“Any luck?” asked Jared. 

“I found a lady tied to a rack,” reported Ron, “but she was getting a chiropractic adjustment.” 

Jared said, “Yeah, I found a lady bound to a wheel but it turns out she just works with a knife thrower.” 

Nessa reported, “I found a lady who was tied up in her own limbs, but apparently that’s her job.”

As they were agreeing that time was short and there were an improbable number of bound women at this circus, Haley was sneaking around the big cat cages and made eye contact with a grizzle bearded circus geek.

“You like the cats? I’m a tiger in bed - rowr!” He winked, then winked again in case she had somehow missed it.

Haley glared with disgust. “I’m not into men,” she informed him, trying to walk past but he blocked her path.

“Hey honey, have you ever considered that maybe you just never met the right man?” he smarmed. Haley, being a reasonable person, stabbed him and stuffed his body in the fennec cage. It was a small cage, so she had to release the fennec first. At this point, she felt pretty committed and decided to let out everything else, too. As she watched the monkeys, mongooses, mooses, and meerkats, moved by mysterious motivations, manically mobilized toward the members of our party,  Haley grinned predatorily. “Hey honey,” she mocked, “have you ever considered that maybe trafficking in endangered species is an international crime? You’d look so much prettier if you smiled.” Still smirking, she strode through through the circus as the gray light of dawn streamed between the tents.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In carefully choreographed concert, the remaining members of the Wakefire converged and followed Haley across the Circus, toward the beckoning forest so that their retreat would go unnoticed.

“Wouldn’t it be convenient if Cynthenny managed to escape and was waiting here for us?!” squealed Nessa. 

The whole crew drew in their breath sharply as Jared hissed, “What did you have to go and say that for?! You’ve basically cursed us!”


	5. The Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fertile forest, a rural reunion, a wise woman, and a wedding.

Unbeknownst to the crew, Daniel and Cynthenny were stumbling drowsily through the woods, struggling to orient themselves away from the circus. Suddenly, Daniel gasped as an idea struck him like a miner coaxing ore from bedrock. “Cynthenny!”

“Wat?”

“You’re the reincarnated captain!”

“-ummmmm...”

“You can sing us back to the ship!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You control the power of the ship! In your previous incarnation, we dropped you in a desert and sailed away to test your powers!”

“Is that how I DIED?!”

“-no. You found the ship from, like, 60km away! It was incredible! You could do that again!”

“Um… but… how?”

“Well, Whenever the crew starts asking if we’re lost, Russ and Jared hum ‘if you’re happy and you know it’? Why don’t you start with that?”

“I guess…  _ if you’re happy and you kno _ -,” she was interrupted by the sound of Daniel’s snort.

“I knew it! You’re pulling my leg!”

“No, it just sounds so… un-sexy when you sing it? When they do it, I feel a bit funny, you know?”

“You must be joking.”

“No, really, try again, I promise not to laugh, honest.”

“Okay …  _ if you're happy and you know it- _ ” she stopped with a scowl as muffled giggles escaped the cabin boy's tightly-closed unkissed lips.

“I'm sorry I just can't help it!” he burst out.

“Uuugh!” Cynthenny threw up her hands and stomped off through the mossy undergrowth, stumbling just enough to remind the audience that she does too have endearing character flaws.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The crew of the Wakefire had retreated down the road to a nearby farmstead, where they congregated in a large, spacious barn, hoping not to be noticed by the farmer. Well, most of the crew. Haley had been invited to join the Circus’s newly freed big cats, who were a magical group of enchanted creatures imprisoned by the evil Ringmaster. They were so grateful, they offered the drummer a new life free from homophobia and unattainable gender ideals. She took Sarah's hand and followed the lionesses into the wild jungle in the hopes of a new adventure. 

The loss of not only their Captain, but also their drummer, left the band despondent. They lounged miserably on haybales, watching the afternoon light streaming down through holes in the barn roof, illuminating the dust, wondering what their next move would be. Ron played a mournful tune on his accordion, and Russ regretfully plucked a bass line while stoically holding back tears. Nessa blew her nose as Mary and Holly comforted her. Mitchel leaned against the barn wall, arms akimbo, gazing out at the lazy sun streaming through the low clouds over the quiet fields, sipping from a flask of homemade cinnamon whiskey. Jared lay tragically prostate on the ground in the middle of the barn staring at the ceiling, unable to even blink. 

“Uh, guys?” Mitchell said, eyes widening in alarm. “Caw, ca-caw, rawwk cheap cheap cheap ca-craawk!”

The rest looked at him blankly, except Jared, who couldn't be pulled out of his despair by mere birdcalls.

“Don't you read the manual???” Mitchell scoffed, but it was too late and the danger was upon them, in the form of the farmer's daughter, come to fetch chicken-feed or something equally idyllic. She stopped in the door, stunned at the ragtag musicians trespassing on her family's property. Not sure what to do, Mitchel offered her the flask. She stepped slightly away from him, justifiably suspicious. 

“Who are ye common ruck rapscallions? What are ye doing in my barn? Why do ye all look so mopey?” the fair maid peppered them with questions, holding her bucket up like a shield. Jared continued to stare up at the ceiling in a gloom that transcended mortal concerns. . Mary kicked his boot, eliciting a “...hey” from the seemingly comatose captain. 

The woman put her hands on her hips, scowling. “Lazy musicians again, aren't ye? Well you'll find no succor here, ye rabble, so along with ye now, go on!”

“Mary?” came Ron's awed voice.

“What?” replied both Mary and the farmer's daughter simultaneously, then they looked at each other, startled. 

“My … my Mary?” Ron's voice was full of wonder and reverence, and he sensually clutched his accordion to his longing breast before venturing toward the woman, tentatively, but also quaveringly.

“...Ron?” she all but whispered. “Ron who wooed me as a lass, but from whom I was cruelly separated by my parents because he was a purely a pup of a puerile penniless piccolo player, all those years ago?”

“Oh, how tragic!” Nessa sighed, to general nods of agreement. 

The two long-separated lovers took each others’ hands and stared, astonished and disbelieving, only just daring to hope, into each others’ eyes. The world seemed to melt into a misty haze of pastel smoke around them as the background music crescendoed into a jubilant roar - as they crushed the accordion between them in fevered embrace. Russ plucked faster, trying to make it tonal and providing a steady wha-Cha funky beat.

“Um, so this is the Mary you write about in your diary?” Nessa asked tentatively.

Ron looked at her with narrowed eyes, “You read my diary?”

“Nope.” Nessa studied the spot on the ceiling that Jared was staring at, “I just edit the the grammar when Faith prepares the highlights for the crew’s weekly briefing.”

Ron sighed. “Yes, everyone, allow me to present Mary, my intended when I was just a boy - Well, I definitely Intended certain things, anyways. But because I could barely earn bread enough for my own belly with my piccolo playing, her parents proceeded to send me away, and I left the town to seek my fortune as a musician-slash-privateer on a magic ship. We were told we’d sail the seas for adventure and gold, I’d fire no guns, shed no tears - Dammit, too much time as a musician. I always Intended to come back for you, Mary-my-heart. You have to believe me, I always did.”

“He did, it’s all over his diary,” Nessa interjected helpfully.

Mary (Ron’s Mary) looked overwhelmed for a moment, but quickly got her emotions in check. Swiftly, she whacked Ron in the shoulder with her bucket. “Well, it’s not me you need to convince, Ronald-the-piccoloist. I’m already willing to marry ye, and I have been since I was a lass. It’s my parents who’ll need convincing!” With a harumph, she extended her hand to Mitchell, who obediently put the flask in it. She took a swig and handed it back. “And they aren’t going to like that you’ve taken up your piccolo with THIS motley crew!”

Jared returned to the present specifically to look offended at this remark. “If you don’t MIND, madame,” he snarled, “We much prefer to be compared to the Decemberists, or Wheezer.”

“Anyways, miss, Ron’s come a long way since we pressganged him - he’s no mere piccoloist anymore,” Russ spoke up, noticing Ron trying and failing to find the right words for this situation. “He’s a fully qualified accordionist, now, and he also plays the dobro, the guitar, and the banj--”

“Ex-nay on the Anjo-Bay!” Ron muttered with panic in his eyes.

“And several other instruments you’d find in the strings section,” Russ corrected without missing a beat.

“And he’s a ship’s chief engineer!” Holly added, “An extremely respectable profession, and one that he can use on shore, too! Or you could shackle him to a godless engine of industry!” 

“Be this true?” Rang out a confrontational voice from behind a pair of shotguns at the barn door. The crew whipped around to see Mary’s farmer parents, her farmer mother double-wielding auto shotguns while her farmer father wrangled the ammunition belts. There was a moment of sheer terror where Ron may have fainted, but we won’t say so as to protect his reputation. Then Mary’s farmer mother spoke again, breaking into a wide smile. “It appears this previously penniless pauper of a piccolo player is no pusillanimous poltroon, but a prosperous patrician protagonist! Proceed promptly to the nuptials, my propitious pirates, we have a party pending!’

There was a brief interval while everyone wiped off spit, then general cheering commenced.

The wedding was dispatched posthaste, before anything more unseemly then a crushed accordion could pass between Ron and his Mary, but not so elaborately that anyone could forget this story is really about Cynthenny, who is still the prettiest and best character.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


We return now to the forest where Cynthenny and Daniel were both standing around being decorative but about as narratively useful as a pair of goddamn Hummel figurines, which are like Precious Moments figurines for people with even more money to waste. Cynthenny was trying to draw a map in the dirt, while Daniel was explaining to her that his time as a Boy Scout meant that he had some very important things to show her with a rope and some fire. 

“Oh for the sake of everloving FUCK!” interjected a traveling wise woman (who worked in health care and as a result cared little for our previous PG rating) “What are you two even doing?” For the sake of fan service, she was a slim, dark and explicit woman armed with a violin and clearly not afraid to use it. A woman ready to commit acts of violins at any time.

She poked them vigorously with a bow. “This is NOT dynamic storytelling! Stop farting around in the woods! Stop your grinnin’, and Drop Your Linen! Make with the mortgage paying boning scene, or advance the plot! There is a wedding party due east of here you need to get to, so get nekkid or get relevant to the narrative!”

Suitably chastened, Daniel and Cynthenny leaped apart. “Oh, no, miss . . . uh-”

“Rachel,” supplied the wise woman.

“Rachel,” continued Cynthenny. “We’re not, um, needing to get married, nor are we, um, whatever you were implying there . . .”

Rachel let out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not YOUR wedding, idjits, but you’ll find the rest of the Wakefire crew there. Weddings are always the best-paying gigs.”

Daniel’s heart leapt in his bosom. “You know the Wakefire?”

“Of COURSE I know them, it’s the goddammed title of the- oh never mind.” She picked up on the cue of the story and started playing a wistful tune on her violin. “Yes, I know them. I even joined the crew for a summer, but then I read ahead to chapter 10 and figured I’d best get out while the getting was good. But you, dear, you’re the protagonist, so you really ought to join them, or at least have a Romantic Encounter in the Woods so we can all write branch-off fanfiction about your forbidden acts.”

Cynthenny and Daniel stared at her perplexedly. “ … So what are we supposed to… ?” 

“Get moving! You have no chemistry! Interact with someone that can get that ‘Ship’ launched, or So Help Me!!!...” Her well timed excoriation faded into the sounds of the forest as Cynthenny grasped Daniel’s maidenly pure palm and they scurried off like the timid woodland creatures they currently actually were.

After miles of dew drenched leaves and succulent undergrowth, they found themselves still in the passive tense proceeding across a fecund field of moist moss to find a barn bursting with boisterous ebullience. There was a wedding party in full swing, with Wakefire giving it their absolute best, except Jared, who was still stricken down, because y’all may not understand the magnitude of the trauma this band just went through. But he DOES, so stop being superficial.

Russ was slapping down the the sickest dirty bass while Nessa was singing a version of Step it out Mary (the happy wedding twerk version with the alternate, nuptials-friendly ending). The crowd carefully danced around the sad supine desolate guitarist who nonetheless heroically strummed the melody despite his crippling ennui and despondency.

“Hii! We are back!..” faltered Cynthenny as she returned to the action of the tale, while dragging along Daniel who kept nattering on about fancy sailor knots or some other thing not important to the main plot. “Who got married?”

“Greetings, Captain!” greeted Russ, “Ships Report! We are down one drummer, one practical piccolo player, (who has been safely Mary-Ed off), and the lead guitar is lolling listlessly like a languid and lachrymose liability. As ship’s attorney and council, I respectfully request you do the adulting and resolve this. P.S. - unhand that cabin boy forthwith!” Cynthenny forthwith unhanded Daniel, who looked disappointed. She evaluated the wedding and determined it was a good thing most of the attendees were drunk farm hands, because Wakefire with two and a half members was a comparatively sad musical act. What would she do with a crew so small and broken?

Well, the first step was easy. Wooo Jared. As a male-identified character with no visible romantic attachments in her story and a need for Tender Understanding, he was probably her destiny. She could practically hear Rachel the wise woman urging her to get 'shippin'. Courage raised, she made her way across the the rowdy dance floor to rouse him with a seductive lieder: 

“I’m ‘shipping up to Boston, way-oh,” she crooned to Jared. “‘Shipping up to Boston, Way-oh,” she intoned. This had no effect, so she sucked on her index finger and stuck it in his ear.

“AAA1! No! Captain! What? Don’t do that, it’s gross!” objected the suddenly engaged Jared. “Oh, you are back,” he observed, “Thank goodness you brought back the cabin boy, there is a year left on his lease. Hey what is this? A wedding? Great! We usually get tips on top of the contracted fee!” At this, Russ’s ear perked up, and he made eye contact with Cynthenny, acknowledging her contribution to the Wakefire’s well being with a pleased nod of respect.

A drunken farmhand named Ian fell off the barn roof, where he shouldn’t have been anyways, and died. No one noticed though, because they were all so happy that the captain had returned to them unharmed.

The reception music started up again, as lilting and lively as an overtaxed vocal section on top of bass and guitar could manage. Suddenly, moonlight streamed through the open barn doors as Veronica and Bubba, the ringleaders of the Midnight Circus everyone was fleeing before they forgot and started partying, ambushed the wedding! They burst burstingly through the barn door (Bubba) and the loft window (Veronica) to land next Cynthenny while brandishing scimitars. They trapped her between them with their weapons, which looked suspiciously like the swords the crew had seen some belly-dancers at the Circus practicing their dances with.

“You may have escaped our highly seductive vivisection, burned down the circus, scattered the animals, and popped our dirigiballoon, but we have you now!” hollered Bubba at Cynthenny. 

Around them, the Wakefire stopped playing, lowered their instruments, then remembered they were also pirates and raised their own weapons menacingly in the opposite hands. The two Circus Masters looked at each other with dawning unease.

“Umm, Bubba? What was the next step after we caught them, again?” queried Veronica as they noticed they were in a ring of pirates, farmhands with pointy things, and most worryingly, Mary’s Mom and her dual wielded autoshotguns. 

The woman readied both her firearms. “And what business have ye here at my daughter’s wedding, ye unruly vermin?” she growled at the disadvantaged antagonists. 

“Eeep,” intoned Bubba, hiding behind his mandolin, “We, um, we, err…”

“We are here to audition for the wedding band!” extemporized Veronica, helpfully dropping her sword and producing a fiddle from beneath her lab coat.

Jared’s manly jaw dropped as an unfamiliar spark of hope burned in his equally manly chest. “Melody players? Hmm.” He pondered for a moment. “Wakefire - band huddle!” he commanded and the crew put their heads together.  

“They kidnapped me and threatened to torture and automatize me,” offered Cynthenny.

“They violently assaulted our ship and scratched the paint,” glowered Russ. 

“There is only room for one romantic leading man, and he is me,” weighed in Jared.

“They are melody players, which the Wakefire sorely needs now,” interjected Veronica.

“I won’t do it ever again and I’m so sorry I will get you a cake,” offered Bubba. 

“Smerp smerp,” kissed Nessa who had already befriended a handsome young farmhand. 

“Fine,” Cynthenny conceded, suddenly remembering Bubba’s eyebrow thing, “I guess you’re in.” Everyone nodded. Band business concluded, everyone picked up their instruments and proceeded to play the gig perfectly without rehearsal and with no drama of any kind.

In the morning, the wholesome and not at all hung over Wakefire crew had a hearty farm breakfast, bid Ron and Mary a tearful farewell, and headed back to the ship, which was pretty easy to find in daylight with no one chasing them. Also Jared showed Cynthenny how to use the captain’s keyfob, so that the ship made helpful ‘ba-bweep’ noises, while they sang traveling music. 

“Our next quest is to find a replacement drummer, and it will not be easy - drummers are in high demand on these seas,” stated Russ. “But first, as contractually agreed upon in the Band Huddle, Bubba owes us an I’m Sorry Cake.” So the stalwart crew set sail according to calculations devised by Russ and Bubba to Get That Cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author makes no apology for the alliteration, it is an TIME-HONORED LITERARY DEVICE.


	6. The Dessert Aisle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wakefire visits a magical island, and a bake-off for a new crew member ensues.

 

The ship moved swiftly but erratically, (the melody provided power, but the rhythm section is what usually held it steady, and they were drummerless), across the moist ocean waves, right up to the point where it beached on a moist sandy beach.

“We are here!” chortled Bubba, “Welcome to the dessert aisle.” 

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Cynthenny, looking out at the tiny island, “Did you mean desert isle?” 

“Not at all, my lovely captain. This island is famed for its selection of sugary treats and the most tempting delectable temptations. We shall procure cake that will show how very, very sorry I am about kidnapping you.”

“AND the threats of torture?” asked the wary Cynthenny. 

“I would never!” Bubba pouted.

“What about Veronica the Fortune Teller slash evil Mad Scientist-Necromancer?”

“Nope, I’m pretty pleased with that,” nonchalanced Veronica, “It’s one of my many hidden talents. As a small child I tortured people with my early violin practice, but then I got really good at violin and had to branch out the torturing. Please allow me to demonstrate at great length if you ever get bored and kind of tingly,” she said while tossing her lab coat overboard and adjusting her teal corset/pirate vest combo. “But Captain, you should call me Vee now. I’ve left behind my evil mad science ways and am now eager to pursue new evil pirate queen ways. All while being a loyal member of your crew, of course.”

Everyone went ashore except Cynthia the ship’s cook, who was untempted because she could make a cake if she wanted at any time, and Daniel the cabin boy, who was grounded for not scrubbing his cooking pots before putting them in the dishwasher. They marched across the sand and through the thick underbrush, into a clearing lined with long, low glass-topped chests and taller, frosted-glass-doored cabinets, under a somewhat frayed banner stating “Dessert Aisle.” The assembled pirates oohed and aahed, reading descriptions off the exotic boxes of frozen confections within the chests. Cheesecakes from New Amsterdam, bonbons and chocolate gateau from the French Mediterranean, rum cakes from the Caribbean with sugar cane garnish, delicate mochi from far-off Japan, Indian rice puddings drenched with cardamom and saffron, lamingtons from the South Australian prison colony, Malva pudding from the southern tip of Africa . . . 

Cynthenny frowned at the way the sandy soil brushed away from laminated tile underfoot, and how the island sun took on the sickly hue of fluorescent lighting. She watched the shadowy silhouettes of the natives creep out of the underbrush in between the chilled chests, in their quaint Dessert Aisle branded aprons and name tags situated atop filthy clothing torn to shreds by harsh natural forces. 

“Crew, this is looking preternatural and possibly accursed,” she hazarded. “It looks like the frozen food section of a grocery store. Also, you are all murmuring about how very normal it is, and not arguing about cover songs - which you usually consider more important than breathing.” No one seemed to hear her - they were hypnotized by the tasty treats. She peered suspiciously at the nearest island dweller, who was offering a sample plate of tiramisu to Russ and Holly. He looked haunted and forlorn, as though his name tag - which read “Hello, my name is Padlo and I’d be happy to help you!” - was the only thing anchoring him to the mortal plane. He wore the rags of a sailor uniform, his frame was slight or husky, and he had soulful eyes of a limpid shade of color.

“You have to believe me . . . I don’t belong here . . .” he murmured, voice breaking, as Russ and Holly chatted amicably about the sale price on the tiramisu. “Never mind . . . sure, have another, have you tried the baklava, it’s a new item, special sale . . .” his voice trailed off in defeat. His face was sunburned and his sensual lips were cracked and might possibly have been framed by facial hair, whether a mustache or beard, or possibly castaway stubble. His vibrant hair was filmed with dust as it cascaded from his scalp to a flattering length - though it had clearly been a long time since a good creme-rinse.

Cynthenny looked behind her. Jared and Bubba were smiling and pointing at a large glistening cake on a high shelf, while a poor wastrel woman with a tear-stained face and an apron climbed up a stepladder to retrieve it . . . or was that a pile of rocks? The odd, shimmery light seemed to be playing tricks with Cynthenny’s eyes. Vee was asking an old, grizzled derelict with a scraggly beard down to his knees where to find the fudge. Even Mary was being helped by a barefoot, desperately chattering madman as she checked items off her grocery list. 

“Jared, why don’t you help that girl, she looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks!” Cynthenny experimented.

“Oh, it’s okay, Captain, they’re all about service with a smile, here! Really some of the best customer service in the Bermuda Triangle, or possibly even the whole of the seven seas.” Bubba nodded in agreement as the girl broke into sobs, handing the cake to him and offering him a coupon to bring to the cashier. 

“Padlo” was at the cash register when they approached, and his eyes were so hopeless that Cynthenny couldn’t bear not to try again, though nothing she did or said seemed to make a difference to the rest of her bedazzled crew. But as I’m sure we don’t have to remind you, but will anyways, Cynthenny was a Very Special, Unique Girl. Her too-red curls gleamed in the pale glow of the fluorescent sunlight. “Padlo,” she said, “What happened to you? What is this place?”

“It’s the Dessert Aisle, ma’am,” he answered in monotone, “A place of tasty treats, marooned sailors, castaways, and forgotten souls that will never escape . . . do you have a loyalty number?”

“You were marooned here?” Cynthenny pressed, ignoring the transaction as Bubba punched in his phone number.

“Yeah I . . . wait, you heard me?” Padlo’s eyes went wide and his breath caught, “You . . . actually hear what I’m saying? Yes, I was marooned!”

Bubba laughed as if he had made a joke. “Mmm, yeah the macaroons are definitely tempting, but I promised the crew a cake! Nice upsell, though! Hope you have a nice shift, this cake looks delicious!”

“Yes, I hear you, how long have you been stranded here? Why does no one rescue you from this strange and delicious place?” Cynthenny continued doggedly, despite the confused looks her crew was giving her. 

“Only three weeks. I’m one of the newest. Most of us have been here for . . . years.” Padlo shuddered and swallowed hard. “Paper or plastic, sir?” He smiled weakly at Bubba before continuing in hushed tones to Cynthenny, “The oldest residents, the ones who aren’t mad, they say the Aisle is under the accursed thrall of . . . never mind, I shouldn’t say his name during store hours . . .” He looked around in sudden fright, double-bagging the cake box with practiced, dextrous motions. “Please, please don’t leave me here. Everyone buys their dessert and leaves, they never let anyone on their ships, they just think we’re employees here!!!” His nerves obviously fraying, he started drumming his fingers on the cake box lid, tapping out a frantic, but steady, rhythm. “If we keep trying to get them to listen to us, they give bad reviews to our managers! We don’t even have anything to eat or drink, we’re only kept alive by the curse, we’re not allowed to have our cake and eat it, too!” The pounding of his fingers grew more intricate as he panicked. Cynthenny looked down at his hands.

“. . . you don’t happen to play an instrument, do you?” she asked.

“I mean, if you consider drums an instrument . . . “ he faltered, his skin-colored face blushing demurely.

Cynthenny seized him in an affectionate headlock. “We’re taking you off this accursed aisle!”

“My manager would NEVER give me that much time off, we don’t even get sick days!” Padlo panicked. Cynthenny held fast, occultly sensing that the amount narrative description lavished on his charismatic and rugged or refined good looks marked him as a significant player in this narrative.

“Hey Mary! This employee claims that their frozen cheesecake is better than homemade!”

There was a sudden horrified silence, like the hush before a hurricane. Mary, aka The Hurricane, stalked back up to the counter as Padlo paled. Mary sized him up (he wasn’t at his most impressive in the headlock). The rest of the band looked on, holding their breath to see what would happen next. Then she said with a glare, “I want to speak to your manager.”

The Dessert Aisle sun dimmed, and the wretched denizens scurried back to clear a path for an ominous figure in black. 

“Who asked for . . . Daddy?” menaced the Manager matter-of-factly as he strode forward. 

“I did,” claimed Mary fearlessly in the face of the Manager’s severe glasses and gleaming pate. “I demand you fire this rude employee who insulted my homemade cheesecakes.” 

“Very well,” sighed the manager as he grabbed Padlo’s scalp and lifted an exquisitely sharp throat-cutting knife.

“Augh, don’t, we need him alive!” interrupted Cynthenny. “On behalf of the Wakefire, Mary challenges you to a cheesecake bake-off for possession of Padlo’s mortal ass!” 

Manager Brown cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean his soul?”

“His soul can’t play drums, and we have needs,” retorted Cynthenny. 

Padlo quailed, worrying about where they expected him to hold his drumsticks. “I’m not comfortable with all this talk about my ass,” firmly boundaried Padlo, whose ass was in fact firmly round and peach like.

“Intriguing,” murmured the Manager, “but what stakes do you offer in return?”

“If we lose, you can have Nessa. She can’t play drums either.” 

“WAIT, WHAT?!” squealed Nessa as the islanders seized her. “Hey! How dare you!” She protested as they dragged her to the Manager. “Well, okay,” she acquiesced as they bound her and dumped her at his feet while his glasses glinted evilly. In the background, the cursed sailorkin rapidly swapped out the frozen delights and cash registers for a stocked pantry and ovens and bakeware.

“Welcome to my Kitchen. In this challenge we will be baking a cheesecake,” introduced the Manager. “I will be assisted by able seaman Padlo, while Mary will be helped by the crew of the Wakefire, minus Nessa,” he exposited, glancing at the figure kneeling at his feet, now clad in a flowing bikini with her hands trapped in cruel spreader bars. “Hey, where did you get those? Did you put those on yourself? . . . How?” 

Nessa shrugged.

Mary barked orders to the Wakefire, as they uncharacteristically lined up weighing, measuring and creaming ingredients with only minor squabbles over who was prettiest or if they needed new wireless mics or whether they should cover “Ra Ra Rasputin.” The Manager selected a solid cake pan and prepared a water bath in the oven, working with an inhumanly scientific precision as he regaled the hapless Padlo with the story of how Philly cream cheese was invented to mimic Neufchâtel and named after the trendy food city of the time. Padlo sadly ground graham crackers for the crust while learning how cheesecake is more of a custard and cannot be expected to behave like a traditional flour cake. The tension was tighter than Vee’s violin solos.

Soon there were a pair of delectable cheesecakes on the counter. 

“Now, to introduce our judge,” presented the Manager. “Meet Ian, an unsuspecting castaway trapped on this island with no sustenance, despairingly dreaming of the day he can again eat food. He will be judging my strawberry topped cheesecake against Mary’s white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.” 

Mary presented Ian with a perfectly plated slice of cheesecake, complete with gleaming white chocolate pendant and delicately drizzled with crushed raspberries, which he devoured with his bare hands, moaning with pleasure. “It’s, So, gooood,” he moaned around a mouth full of cake. Manager Brown then presented his enchanting - and enchanted - strawberry dessert, which Ian fell upon ravenously. “This is also so goo-URK!” choked Ian, as he fell face down on the floor, dead as an Ian. 

“HE WAS POISONED! We win!” triumphed Russ. “Quickly, to the boats!” The crew grabbed the unresisting Padlo and the equally unresisting Nessa, (she waved fondly farewell to the Manager, who stood there rather stunned), as they stampeded back to the ship and rowed like hell away from the Aisle. Nessa lifted her arms shackled to the spreader bar, her lilting voice squealing after them, “Can I keep these?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I can’t believe you just happened to find a drummer at the Dessert Aisle, that’s so mysterious and convenient!” Nessa squealed over her second slice of cake in the mess later that night. She had not changed out of the bikini. “Here’s to the captain!”

“Here, here!” the crew agreed, toasting joyfully with I’m Sorry Cake and whiskey. 

“HERE HERE!” cried Padlo, over his first bite of . . . anything . . . in three weeks. “I will literally work my ass off to learn all your songs before the next gig, I swear . . . but, how did Ian die? The Manager is an evil warlock with fussy dom energy, but he takes such pride in his cooking.” 

“Well he  _ was  _ poisoned,” explained Russ.

“Yes, I administered 18 inches of sharp steel into his back and he must have been allergic or something,” clarified Jared.

Cynthenny facepalmed humbly as Russ and Jared shared a satisfied look and a smile. They, too, were pleased at the acquisition of the new drummer. Yep, Cynthenny certainly was their long-lost, magically reincarnated Captain, alright. Everything seemed to be looking up, for the Wakefire. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Wakefire and all it's crew for letting us poke good-natured fun at them.


End file.
